Feelin' Fine, Ma
by InstigateInsanity
Summary: Sister story to 'Requiem'. Zell keeps a journal through the worst days of his life.


This is a revision of another very old oneshot. It is a sister story to _Requiem,_ told from Zell's point of view. I wanted to explore a different writing style and I actually still like this one.

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><p><em><strong>Saturday 12 March, Year of Hyne 3014<strong>_

_**14:15 hours**_

So the Doc told me that keeping a diary was the best way to remember. Seems dumb to me – what if I forget where I put the cursed thing? Won't help me in the slightest then, and that's a problem – when it comes to memories, SeeD are about the biggest bunch of no-hopers you're ever likely to meet. Funny, that.

Still, that's not really why I'm writing this. See, I remembered something the other day (har har) that struck me like a hammer blow – namely, that stupid online events calendar/journal that Selphie kept during the Sorceress War. We all paid her out something fierce for it, but there was barely a soul in the entire Garden who didn't write a few thoughts down in the forums. A lot of it was mindless exuberance – "Hey, yeah, let's go kill the stupid Sorceress!" – but what really got me was the amount of _anonymous_ messages being posted, and the unusually heavy subjects most of those notes dealt with.

I'll never forget Anonymous9244's message, not 'til the day I die. _"Can someone get in touch with the Del Toros, East Balamb? Their little girl Sahra's got about three hours left, and she wants to say bye."_ I knew Sahra Del Toro. The sweetest little girl you ever met, seven years old, had a mean roundhouse kick even then. I could tell she was gonna grow up into one tough lady.

I was her sensei.

And then, when her folks didn't show, I was her daddy. I held her hand, I whispered empty comforts to her in a hall filled with screaming people, that metallic blood fug heavy in the air. Hell, I even sang to her, all the old blues songs Da taught me when I was a kid. Well, for about half an hour, anyway, before the internal bleeding and perforated kidneys took their toll.

That blood smell. It's not something you ever forget. It seeps into your clothes and hair, and no amount of washing will ever get it out again. You learn to live with the faint taste of it in every meal, the memory of it when you watch a movie, the feel of it slick and sticky beneath your fingers when you hold a girl. I'm not even sure it's right to call it a _smell,_ per se - it's more like a, like a presence. A thing there in the room with you that hasn't quite taken physical form yet but it's trying its damndest -

Oh, man, sorry. I went off on a tangent there. Hey, no-one's reading this thing but me, right?

Don't answer that.

Seems the life of a SeeD's fraught with hardships. Squall once told me they weren't hardships, they were pathways; one giant road network caught up in a neverending cosmic cycle, and they all have one thing in common – they all lead back to death. 'Course, he was pretty liquored up at the time, coz I couldn't see Squall talking that way normally.

The booze? Stress, mainly. Stress led to not sleeping, not sleeping led to more stress, stress led to drinking. We all saw the heart attack coming, I guess, just never thought it could actually happen. Not to Squall. We all thought he was invincible. What's that saying, about not putting someone on a pedestal? Well, we all put him on one, and expected him to like it up there - or at least to tolerate it. Not too much to ask, right? Well, guess what - it turns out that even the hardiest pedestal crumples under too much weight. Irvine found him one night - I understand he'd gone up with a bottle of whiskey and a deck of cards, looking for conversation. I like to think I was Squall's best bud but by the end of it, that title most definitely went ot Irvine. Don't ask me why - two less likely friends you will never meet - but they got on like a house on fire.

Everyone else dealt with it (or didn't, as the case mighta been) in their own ways. Rinoa left. Selphie's a wreck, Quistis went psycho, and Irvine ... well, he seems mostly the same as ever, except when he's not. I really can't explain it better. He gets this look in his eyes, sometimes, and it used to unsettle me because I couldn't tell if it was a bad look or not.

Nowadays it unsettles me for an entirely different reason. I caught him a year or two back when I visited Galbadia Garden – called on him for a card game and found him drinking whiskey and polishing his gun. He had that look about his eyes, gazing at the pistol. It was one of his two prized six-shooters, all gleaming chrome and polished rosewood handles, and even a quick glance told me that it was loaded and the safety switch was halfway between off and on.

I don't think he'd shoot himself. Irvine just doesn't strike me as the type.

But ...

Screw this. I'm calling it a night.

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><p><em><strong>Monday 14 March, Year of Hyne 3014<strong>_

_**03:09 hours**_

I hate this journal. It's got me thinking about all the people who've died. All the stupid deaths that could have been avoided so easily - the mad bitch could have held off on her stupid time spell, Seifer could have been less of a dick, Martine could have treated us like people rather than dogs, Caraway could have grown a spine, Squall could have

_(significant portion of text blacked out)_

Nope, I'm not even

_(handwriting illegible)_

Okay.

Okay. it's 04:42 now and I've got that outta my system. Doc Kadowaki says it's good to vent but not too much - you can say or think things you'll regret for years after everyone else has forgotten them. It's damn good advice. I'm just the sort of hypochondriac who doesn't just regret things for _years_ afterwards but _decades._ Too much stress will affect my brain and I need my brain now more than ever.

Oh, I didn't tell you? Silly me!

Ma's dying.

Cosmic pathways, Squall old buddy. Perhaps the liquor showed you enlightenment, rather than just killing you.

This whole thing was Doc's suggestion so I guess I should write it down. 'Make it real' as the shrink said in the one session I bothered to attend. Good God I hated that woman, and I don't hate anyone. Well, except for Seifer, of course. But if you can show me just one sane, rational individual who _does _like that prick, then I'll clap you on the back, smile, concede defeat, and point out the four Horseman on the horizon behind you.

Two weeks ago, Ma was diagnosed with small cell lung cancer. It's metastasized (_spread,_ in language that normal people use) to her liver, spleen, and brain, and there's nothing they can do. No amount of potions, elixirs, or spells. She never even smoked.

Writing sucks. I'm gonna stop.

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><p><em><strong>Wednesday 16 March, Year of Hyne 3014<strong>_

_**23:52 hours**_

Don't'cha just love military discipline? Even after completely severing my ties with SeeD, I can't seem to stop writing everything in army time – twelve hour clocks confuse me all to hell now. Besides, twenty-four hour time is so much more useful – there's always only ever one set time of the day. It never comes around twice, and never leads me to confuse which of Ma's shots are which.

She got worse today. Doc Kadowaki came around (which was real nice of her coz she doesn't normally do house calls) and gave her a shot of morphine, then did a physical. True fact: apparently coughing up blood _isn't_ a sign of recovery. Who'd have guessed it, eh?

Her fingertips are clubbed, too, which the doc tells me means she's entering the final stages. "With radiation therapy, she might have a few months," she told me, wiping her hands on a towel. "She'll be uncomfortable, though, and it'll be painful no matter what."

"What if we don't do the therapy?"

"Then she's got a week left at most. Maybe nine days if we're really lucky." She smiled sadly at me, then left.

I don't suppose it'll come as any great surprise to anyone who knows my Ma, but she chose not to do the therapy. She's a strong lady, much stronger than I'll ever be, and she's a hell of a fighter. Not a martial artist, you understand; no, in her own way, she's way more skilled than I'll ever be. At least she won't be alone when she goes.

So I've got until next Wednesday, maybe until Friday. No telling what might happen in between. I should be crying right now, but it's as though I'm hollow. Empty. There's nothing in my head that even resembles sadness, and I just checked my eyes. They're as dry as the Kashkabald.

What the hell is wrong with me?

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><p><em><strong>Thursday 17 March, Year of Hyne 3014<strong>_

_**00:13 hours**_

Can't sleep. Need to write this down.

I don't really see much of the old gang anymore. It's sad, truth be told – we made such a great team during the Sorceress War. And afterward it was only more of the same – late night chats between friends, a card game here or there, and the most amazing thing ever – a trip to Deling City with an all expenses paid cashcard for my twenty-first birthday. I know you wouldn't believe me if I told ya that Squall footed the bill entirely, so I won't say it.

Doesn't make it any less the truth.

But then he died and everything went to hell. I see no real need to repeat stuff I've already said, and besides – I'm basically talking to myself here, right? Anyone who dares try to read this thing without my permission's gonna find themselves short a hand.

Those of you with sticky fingers, you've been warned.

But yeah, it's all gone bad. So you can imagine my surprise when I heard someone thumping like a psycho on the door, demanding to be let in. The words were slurred, but I'd recognize that rustic twang anywhere.

Irvine's one of the only ones I've stayed good friends with since Squall's death, but I was still surprised to see him. He should have been at Galbadia Garden - I knew for a fact that he wasn't eligible for leave until June. He also stank of cheap liquor, so who was I not to let him in?

I thought for a moment I'd made a horrible mistake. There was something black in his eyes, and he looked so much like Seifer at the height of his brainwashing that I thought for a second that he was gonna kill me.

"Can I come in?" he asked, and the emptiness in his voice just about had me screaming. But I stood aside, motioned him in. It was pissing down with rain outside, and he'd been drinking and his body temperature was obviously running a lot higher than normal. When he sat down at our kitchen table I could practically _hear_ the wood beginning to rot.

I said nothing. Irvine had obviously deserted his post. That's as serious an offence in Garden as it would be in the military, perhaps even moreso for faculty and students of Galbadia Garden.

Why was he here? Where was Selphie?

"Ya know what night it is?" he asked suddenly.

I shook my head.

"Ya should. Found me in my quarters back in Balamb, a year ago tonight. Remember that?"

_Drinking whiskey and polishing his gun._ Oh yeah, I remembered that night.

Irvine laughed hollowly. "S' the day my ole Mama died, thass wha' day it is." He reached into his coat, pulled out a bottle. I recognized the brew. It was the stuff sold by old Cholo down near the docks, pure Balambii moonshine. A half glass of that liquid devil piss is enough to get me drunker than a Deling City hobo, and I can drink most people under the table. Almost half the bottle was gone. How long had he had it?

I said nothing.

Irvine uncorked the brew and knocked a slug back straight from the bottle. "Bin visitin' her grave out near Winhill fer twenty-two years now, I have, ever since she died. Whassa point've diggin her grave out there? Weren't even a half hour walk ter Deling when I was a kid."

Gods, he was drunker than I thought he was. His accent was _never_ this thick when he was sober. Combined with the slur, I was catching only about two thirds of what he was saying.

"Matron use ter git some old geezer mate've hers ter take me, when I was in the orph – orphan – orphan house," he continued, waving the bottle jovially. "He was one've Martine's mates. Thass how I came ter Garden, ya know." He smiled. I've never seen such a bitter expression. "This year I jus' happened ter take Sefie along."

"Irvine," I said quietly, "aren't you supposed to be at Galbadia Garden?"

He looked at his watch, then nodded his head. "Yep. I'm about six hours overdue, by th' look o' thangs." He tipped the bottle back again. White tequila dribbled down his chin, splattering onto his coat. I hoped he wasn't junctioned to any fire Guardians; at that moment, despite the drenching from the rain, he'd have been more flammable than the Sun.

"Irvine, they're gonna come looking for you."

He nodded. "I know. I jus' … I just cain't stand this shit anymore, Zell. I had a good ole chat with Mama jus' a few hours ago, an' it taught me a few things 'bout myself. I hate Garden. I miss the ole days, when we was fightin' togethah, but I don't wanna kill no more. I'm a rotten godsdamned coward an' I'm draggin' Sefie down with me." He grinned crookedly up at me. "I'm tired, Zell. Spent."

I took the bottle from him and took a pull, wincing only slightly, and earned a proud grin from my cowboy friend.

"Still got it, bud," he said.

"What are you gonna do?" I asked, once the burn wore off. My head was buzzing, but it wasn't a pleasant feeling.

"I cain't go back ter that, Zell. I cain't even step inter the buildin without feelin sick no more. They wanna court martial me, that's fine. They wanna dishonourably discharge me, that's fine too. But I'm done with SeeD."

He suddenly sounded chillingly sober.

"I'm gonna go out ter Galbadia, find me a little patch of nowhere," he continued. "Build myself a cottage, mayhap do a little hunting. Perhaps it'll be by the seaside, so's I kin cast a line into the waves whenever I git a hanker-on."

He stood up, pausing long enough to light a cigarette. For the life of me I couldn't figure out how they stayed dry in the downpour outside. "Thanks fer the palaver, Zell," he said, that crooked grin still firmly in place. He reached out, shook my hand, and left in a cloud of smoke. The shine bottle sat on the table.

I don't think I'll be seeing him anymore, somehow.

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><p><em><strong>Friday 18 March, Year of Hyne 3014<strong>_

_**21:44  
><strong>_

Doc came by again today with another prescription for Ma. No invasive procedures or resuscitation attempts per her request. Just an experimental drug therapy that _might_ give her an extra day or two.

She insisted on cooking dinner. I'm perfectly handy in the kitchen - don't laugh, Selphie, you know you ate more than any of the others combined whenever I whipped up Ma's hueveros rancheros - but Ma wouldn't allow it. Now that I think about it, she's been fast asleep in her bed ever since we finished up (I did the dishes because no matter how much she protested, she was already looking shaky). I wonder if she thought she'd never get another chance to make me dinner agian. Because that ain't how my Ma thinks. I will not

_(text ends)_

I'm not

_(text ends)_

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><p><em><strong>Sun 2003/14 **_

_**16 pm fucking i dont**_

Ma's worse Coughing badly won't take painkillers

I haven't slept since

_(illegible)_

cant sleep

_(illegible)_

Won't sleep. Went for longer without in SeeD on missions, can survive again. Need to be at Ma's side at all times now and i dont

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><p><em><strong>Monday 21 March, Year od Hyne 3014<strong>_

_**13:06 hours  
><strong>_

Ya know how sometimes everything doesn't seem real? I'm sitting at the small lookout over the Dolletian Sea as I write this, and it's the most beautiful sight I've ever seen – there's seagulls everywhere, blazing through the sky as though they got no worries in the world. Sometimes I wish I was one of them – I want to open my wings and fly, soar above the world, lose myself in the chaos of a thousand bodies and faces I've never seen before. I want to forget, to rise, to taste the sky.

From my vantage point there's a wide expanse of amazingly green savannah, which ends in dunes two miles away. And beyond that, seemingly stretching off for forever, lies the sea. It's beautiful, a deep, rich blue (what my Ma calls cerulean), and I never tire of taking our small yacht out when I get the chance. I used to love annual leave when I was in Garden; there's nothing like sailing at twilight, with the last rays of sunlight still flecking the sky.

My house is five blocks and three turns away. I've walked these streets my entire life, I know them like the back of my hand. Now I walk them and I see a strange land, a world of sharp colours and painful architecture. People I've known my entire life seem distant and cold to me, though they greet me with friendly handshakes and twinkles in their eyes.

I couldn't wake Ma up this morning. I tried to – she's got a few pills she's gotta take in the morning, and if she doesn't take them the pain really gets her bad – but she wouldn't wake up. Most people might've been a bit worried, but not me. I smiled; me and her always did have our little jokes we liked to play. So, playing along, I searched for a pulse, as I'd been taught to in First Aid classes back at Garden. I couldn't find one. No matter; I'm sure it'll be back when I get home.

All part of the game, you see.

So I'm gonna finish up here. Groceries waiting to be bought, after all, but there's no rush. The sun's shining, birds are singing, and I'm feelin' fine, Ma, ain't it great to be alive?


End file.
